Anya Lehnsherr | Earth 97400 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fridgetothefire) wrote2015-06-28 08:49 pm
fridgetothefire) wrote2015-06-28 08:49 pm
074 ☣ Snicker-snack
[Public video]
[The post comes thirty, maybe forty-five minutes after Kara's. Even with the major broken bones and butchery repaired, from just the shoulders up, Anya looks an absolute wreck. She has a swollen, mottled lump at her temple, ugly purple dripping under her skin like a watercolor stormcloud. Her throat is bruised too, the wide brumous darkness there slashed through with line of red lightning, gleaming and raw rather than simple rusting scab, where she thrashed against the rough iron wire binding her neck. Her mouth has a dab of blood that wasn't all washed away, her lip ragged where she chomped partway through it. Her hair is a sweat-matted mess. Most of all, though, is the look in her eye, an unhinged lurching snarl.]
This. Is done. Now. This thing, with Dean, it's me and him, and we are square. Whatever private wars you've got to settle, I don't care, but any one of you touches him in my name - no vengeance. None.
Or I will take it out of your fucking hide.
[She is not entirely sane right now. And she is not even remotely fucking around. The feed cuts out. And then, fifteen seconds later, still broadcast to everyone.]
Including you.
[Private to Ricki]
[Slumped, quieter]
...except you, I guess. Sorry.
But please don't.
[Private to Stiles]
[Also quiet, eyes downcast, exhausted.]
If he can't be bothered to tell you, I think he thought I was the admiral. That he could get free, save the people here. I know you have to do something, I know you'll do. Whatever you decide is best.
But I'd like to be. Informed.
[Private to Iris]
Thank you.
[Infirmary spam]
[She stays there about thirty-six hours, too worn out to do very much, letting the minor surface wounds that didn't get mended with magic stay cleaned and bandaged and iced. She'll see visitors if they come, will be wan and weary but lucid, without the vicious freneticism of the immediate aftermath. After that, she can't stand it any longer despite the advantages, retreats to the sanctuary of her cabin.]
[The post comes thirty, maybe forty-five minutes after Kara's. Even with the major broken bones and butchery repaired, from just the shoulders up, Anya looks an absolute wreck. She has a swollen, mottled lump at her temple, ugly purple dripping under her skin like a watercolor stormcloud. Her throat is bruised too, the wide brumous darkness there slashed through with line of red lightning, gleaming and raw rather than simple rusting scab, where she thrashed against the rough iron wire binding her neck. Her mouth has a dab of blood that wasn't all washed away, her lip ragged where she chomped partway through it. Her hair is a sweat-matted mess. Most of all, though, is the look in her eye, an unhinged lurching snarl.]
This. Is done. Now. This thing, with Dean, it's me and him, and we are square. Whatever private wars you've got to settle, I don't care, but any one of you touches him in my name - no vengeance. None.
Or I will take it out of your fucking hide.
[She is not entirely sane right now. And she is not even remotely fucking around. The feed cuts out. And then, fifteen seconds later, still broadcast to everyone.]
Including you.
[Private to Ricki]
[Slumped, quieter]
...except you, I guess. Sorry.
But please don't.
[Private to Stiles]
[Also quiet, eyes downcast, exhausted.]
If he can't be bothered to tell you, I think he thought I was the admiral. That he could get free, save the people here. I know you have to do something, I know you'll do. Whatever you decide is best.
But I'd like to be. Informed.
[Private to Iris]
Thank you.
[Infirmary spam]
[She stays there about thirty-six hours, too worn out to do very much, letting the minor surface wounds that didn't get mended with magic stay cleaned and bandaged and iced. She'll see visitors if they come, will be wan and weary but lucid, without the vicious freneticism of the immediate aftermath. After that, she can't stand it any longer despite the advantages, retreats to the sanctuary of her cabin.]
[Spam!]
Dropping her gaze, Morgana sits and waits for the rush of her adrenaline to fade. When it doesn't, she rises again to fetch bandages and a salve that's probably more reliant on magic and herbology than any modern chemical properties.]
I know we both do. [She can at least admit that.] I'll rest after. [Because while she's working, she won't have to worry about the adrenaline bringing up frustrated tears.]
[Spam!]
[She tries to make it sound certain, and she mostly is, but it comes out just weary. She would know, she thinks, each spot where the fractures aren't anymore full of a strange, gaping, negative ache, an uncomplicated and unfathomable hollowness where so much intensity used to be, relief mixed with incomprehension.
She reaches forward, tentatively, with a hand that is no longer butchered, butterflied, speared messily through, and grabs one of Morgana's, holds it tight. Whispers, because that's all she can control,]
I'm so glad you were here.
[There are other people who could have fixed her; but no one else she trusts so much, would want to have so much power over her, carved and vulnerable.]